


You Came Back But Never Meant To Stay

by iriswallpaper



Series: Heartaches By The Number [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Sherlock shot CAM, Anxiety, F/M, Heartache, John returns to Mary, John worries about the future, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Pining John, Season/Series 03, Worry, scenes in between/concurrent with S3 on-screen events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 16:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Christmas:  John deals with the aftermath of Sherlock's shooting Magnussen and his return to Mary.<br/>John's truly in a lot of heartache.</p><p>Scene-based fics that are concurrent with events in S3. This is not an S3 fix-it fic.</p><p>Title from the song "Heartaches by the Number."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Came Back But Never Meant To Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not betaed, so please excuse my mistakes and feel free to point them out.

_Heartache number three was when you called me_  
_And said that you were coming back to stay_  
_With hopeful heart I waited for your knock on the door_  
_I waited but you must have lost your way_

 

 

A weary sigh escaped John’s lips as he settled onto the sofa, propped his sock-clad feet on the coffee table and flipped on the telly. With his other hand, he brought his beer bottle to his lips and downed a third of it in one gulp. What a hellish 24 hours it had been. First, Sherlock drugged his family and Mary, then the nightmare at Appledore, watching Sherlock blow a man’s brains out two feet in front of his face, then the sleepless night at the police station. 

John still wasn’t sure how Mycroft had worked it out, or whose arse Mycroft had kissed, but just as the sun rose, an officer came to the holding cell and told John he was free to go. He’d collected his wallet, phone and keys and staggered out onto the pavement. He’d expected a black towncar to be waiting but was disappointed in that. He waited about an hour and finally caught a cab when Mycroft failed to appear. 

Then came a heated grilling by Mary, who had wanted to know every tiny detail of what had taken place at Appledore. If John hadn’t been distrustful of her before, he would have become so after her probing, manipulative questions. Finally, well after noon, John had taken a shower and slept for three quarters of an hour. He jerked awake from a nightmare in which the tables had been reversed and Magnussen had been the one to blow Sherlock’s brains out less than a yard from John. He’d been unable to fall back asleep so he’d come into the kitchen to find something to eat and had breathed a sigh of relief to have found the house silent and deserted. He’d spent the afternoon alternatively calling Mycroft’s mobile and his many office numbers, emailing him and texting, begging for news of Sherlock. Mary had returned about seven in the evening with a takeout bag and no explanation of where she’d been. 

They’d eaten in silence, on paper plates at the coffee table, side by side on either end of the sofa with the telly on to fill the silence. John had fallen asleep again for a few minutes watching a documentary on World War II. Mary had spent the evening in the bedroom doing god only knew what.

And now, John just wanted to relax and have a few beers to help take his mind off the nagging worry eating at his guts. Mycroft had yet to return any of John’s messages but that didn’t stop John from obsessively checking his mobile for text, voicemail and email. He even kept the cordless phone to their home landline close by, but no call came all day. He watched a football match without any real attention until he emptied his beer, then heaved himself to his feet to get another.

Mary sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen with a glass of milk and her laptop. Under normal circumstances, John would have kissed her hair and asked what she was doing. Today, he just glanced at her then jerked open the refrigerator. He fished out two bottles of beer - to save himself having to see Mary again when he needed another refill. Slamming the fridge, he turned back toward the living room and an evening of drinking and worrying.

The officers at the police station had not shared any information with John. He’d had no idea where Sherlock was or what the charges against him were. When he’d been discharged, John had asked the desk sergeant if he could see Sherlock. The sergeant had given him a sympathetic look and told him to go home - that wasn’t an answer. 

And now, twelve hours later, John still had no idea where his partner was nor if he was being charged with murder. In any normal circumstance, he was sure Sherlock would have already been booked on murder charges. He had killed a man in cold blood in front of a dozen witnesses, after all. But having a brother who ran the British Government, including the British Secret Service, was not a normal circumstance. John was not a godfearing man but he prayed with all his heart that Mycroft was able to work something out to keep Sherlock out of prison.

John took another drink while he marveled at his own relative morality. Before he met Sherlock, he’d been so upstanding, defending Queen and Country, honoring his Hippocratic Oath, saving lives and defending democracy. Then Sherlock had hit like a hurricane, spinning his iron-clad moral compass with a swirl of coat tails, cutting through John’s rock-hard sense of justice with cheekbones sharp as diamonds. And now here John sat, praying that Sherlock could get away with murder. Cold-blooded murder - all because Sherlock had calculated wrong.  A giggle that bordered on hysteria bubbled up from John’s throat as he shook his head over their sad, sad situation.

Mary came into the living room and sat a little closer to John than she’d sat during dinner. She glanced sharply at John’s feet on the coffee table. John half hoped she’d say something about his feet on the table. It would give him an excuse to be short with her - maybe he could even work up enough ire to escalate things to the point he could justifiably sleep on the sofa. To John’s disappointment, she looked away without a remark. 

They stared at the television. John could not care less about the football match and he knew Mary was indifferent to football but he took a perverse satisfaction in leaving the channel alone. After a quarter of an hour Mary sighed. She looked directly at John for the first time in hours. “John, you must be exhausted. Come to bed.” Her tone was wheedling.

John reached for the extra beer and cracked the lid. He took a drink from the bottle then gestured with it. “You go on. I’m not really tired.” He looked at Mary directly - she looked tired. The lines around her mouth appeared deep in the lamplight. She met his eyes then glanced away. He could tell there was more she wanted to say. Or could he? At one time he’d thought he could read her expressions. That was before he realized he didn’t know her at all. Maybe there was more she wanted to say, maybe not.

Finally Mary looked away. She stood and smoothed her jumper over her prominent stomach. She straightened her spine before she spoke. “I understand if you don’t want to have sex with me. It’s not like I’m the slim girl you married. Just come to bed to sleep. I don’t expect you to want any more than that.” She patted her distended belly meaningfully.

Normally John would have said something like he considered her beautiful no matter what. He actually huffed a laugh out loud at the thought. What, if anything, about his life with Mary was normal? With any given pregnant woman, he would have assured her that she was beautiful and desirable. But now, knowing what he knew, Mary’s remark just felt manipulative. And John hated to be manipulated. 

“You know what, Mary? It might be best if I just sleep in the guest room. I won’t be good company in bed tonight and you need your rest.” John’s tone was firm. He was telling, not asking.

Mary looked a little uncertain. She cradled her belly with both hands. “Well, if that’s what you want.”

John nodded and looked back toward the television without answering.

 

~*~

 

The morning light streaming through the east facing window in the guest room woke John early. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head. After Mary retired, he’d had another two beers then stumbled to the guest room well after midnight. The alcohol had helped him sleep. If he’d had nightmares, he didn’t remember and they hadn’t awakened him. But now the bright sunlight made his head thump. 

He managed another two hours of sleep and woke sweating from having been burrowed under the blankets for so long. He got out of bed and pulled on his trousers then his shirt then ventured out into the hallway, pausing for a moment to listen for any sound of Mary. The only sound breaking the silence was the hum of the furnace. If she was at home, she was reading or doing some other quiet activity.

John used the hallway bathroom then glanced into the living room on his way to the kitchen - no signs of Mary. He found a note on the kitchen counter:

_ I have a full shift today. Will be home around 7. ~ M _

Sighing in relief, John both relished and dreaded the thought he’d have the day to himself. A wave of anxiety washed over him at the thought of worry-filled hours. Why the hell didn’t Mycroft get in touch with him?

Another anxious thought came when he read Mary’s note a second time. He realized he’d have to see about a job. He couldn’t expect Mycroft to continue regular deposits into his account if he wasn’t taking sole care of Sherlock any longer. His fists clenched at the thought of Sherlock in a jail cell. How much longer would it be until he could see Sherlock? Was he being treated well? _Where was he?_

John went back into the bedroom and picked up his mobile from the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed and typed out a text to Mycroft, sent it, then copied and pasted it into an email which he also sent off to Mycroft. Finally he left brief voicemails at each of Mycroft’s numbers. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, John blew out his cheeks in a loud sigh. He didn’t want to just sit around the house all day. He needed to occupy his mind until he heard from Mycroft. He decided he’d go to Baker Street. He needed to gather some clothing and toiletries. He could visit with Mrs. Hudson and explain why Sherlock hadn’t come home. He closed his eyes tightly at the thought of Mrs. Hudson. Surely she’d worried when Sherlock never returned from his Christmas holiday. How thoughtless of him not to call her.

Forty-five minutes later he’d showered, dressed, had coffee, walked to the Tube and found himself on the train heading toward Baker Street. He sighed when he remembered all the time he’d wasted aboard the train when he’d lived in the suburb with Mary. Really, it didn't make sense to live so far out and commute so far to and from work. He closed his eyes and longed for the familiar surroundings of Baker Street, the sound of Mrs. Hudson hoovering, the traffic outside the window. He’d only been gone two days and he already missed it terribly.

He let himself in the black door and went directly to Mrs. Hudson’s door. She answered on his first knock and gestured him inside with a long face. Mycroft had already been by to explain the rudimentary details of what transpired at Christmas and to inform her that he would pay the rent as long as Sherlock was detained. 

Mrs. Hudson made tea and they sat across from each other at her kitchen table, worrying. Mrs. Hudson asked John if he minded if she smoked. He smiled and assured her he didn’t. In fact, he decided to have a cigarette with her - the first cigarette he’d smoked since his Army training days at Sandhurst. After an initial coughing fit, John found the cigarette calming.

Mrs. Hudson followed him up the stairs and fidgeted around the flat while he packed a bag. After he sat it on the landing, he asked Mrs. Hudson to sit with him for a while. John sat in his chair and Mrs. Hudson sat in Sherlock’s. They talked of nothing important - mostly they just worried together. John drifted off without realizing it and woke an hour later to find that Mrs. Hudson had tucked the afghan around him. He stretched and looked at his watch:  1pm. There wasn’t any real reason to return to the house in the suburbs. John decided to stay home at Baker Street for as long as possible and pretend it was any normal day. He cleaned the fridge, did a load of laundry, changed the sheets and sorted the mail. The familiar routines calmed him and he could almost pretend that Sherlock would come thundering up the steps at any moment.

The text chime made him start later that afternoon. 

Mycroft Holmes: _No need to worry. Arranging plans for SH._

John replied:   _Thanks, I guess. What plans?_

Mycroft Holmes:   _Not at liberty to share at this time. Will inform you as soon as possible._

 

John sat down at the kitchen table. He stared at his phone and fought the urge to punch something. He still didn’t know anything about Sherlock’s situation, other than that Mycroft was indeed trying to arrange things. He paused to pray fervently that Mycroft would be successful before he replied.

_Thank you. Please keep me informed._

Mycroft Holmes: _I will. No need to worry._

John laughed at loud at Mycroft’s text. No need to worry? Only the Ice Man could say something so ludicrous at a time like this. 

John put the phone on the table and folded his hands. He needed to make a decision about work. He really didn’t want to go back to the surgery and work with Mary but he did need to find a job. If he were going to play the role of Family Man until the baby came and his custody petition was filed, part of that role was providing for the family. John punched Mike Stamford’s contact; Mike answered on the first ring. They chatted a bit then John got to the point, telling Mike that he was looking for a job and would appreciate Mike’s recommendation if any job came open at the hospital. Mike assured John he’d make some inquiries and they rang off.

John was folding a load of towels when Mike called back later. He told John of a job opening in the A&E and that he’d already talked to the A&E’s Medical Director on John’s behalf and arranged an interview for the following Monday. John was delighted at the prospect and thanked Mike profusely.

Twenty minutes later, John’s text chime sounded again:

Mycroft Holmes:   _You will be offered the job. Take it._

John stared at the text. He’d thought things went a little too smoothly with Mike and a sudden job interview, but hadn’t stopped to consider that it smacked of Mycroft’s meddling. Normally John resented Mycroft's interference in his and Sherlock’s lives, but in this instance, he would take any help Mycroft could offer and be grateful for it. He tapped out a reply:

_ Thank you. I appreciate your help. _

 

~*~

 

They passed another evening in near-silence. Mary brought home takeout again. This time they both sat in the living room, John on the sofa and Mary on the side chair. They watched a movie, one from the 90s they’d both seen several times, but it filled the silence and the time. Mary went to bed with a short ‘goodnight’ as soon as the movie ended. She shut the door behind her.

John retreated to the guest room a short time later. He lay awake and thought about Mary in the next room. What did she want? What was she thinking? Was it enough for her that he was in the house? She didn’t appear to be especially contrite, nor did she appear to be especially hostile. It felt more like she was tolerating his presence for the sake of appearances. Is that what she wanted? The appearance of a regular suburban family:  mum, dad, 2.1 children and a dog? Would that be enough for her, at least until the baby came? 

John clenched his eyelids at the thought of being in the birthing room with Mary. Such an intimate, personal time - the birth of a couple’s child. He’d done an OB rotation during medical school and was touched by how close the birth experience drew a couple. He’d attended more than a dozen births and been awed by each new infant’s first breath, first wail, the first time a new mother held her child. A tear slipped down his cheek at the memories. Could he keep up a facade long enough to make it to the birth? Could he hold her hand, hold up her shoulders while she pushed, get her ice chips, rub her back? Another tear slipped out, this time one of bitterness. The thought of acting a role at his child's birth twisted in his chest. At time that should be joyous, that should draw he and the child’s mother closer - and he was to share it with a stranger-assassin-murderer. 

He had to stop this - stop the thoughts before they drove him mad. He took deep breaths and thought of Baker Street, of the dusty living room and messy kitchen, his old bedroom at the top of the stairs, Sherlock’s broken headphones on the skull, the big bed he now shared with Sherlock. The smell of biscuits coming up through the floorboards when Mrs. Hudson baked. The flat door hanging open all day, Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs, the sound of violin music in the middle of the night. These comforting thoughts carried John off to the first peaceful slumber he’d had since Sherlock shot their future to hell.


End file.
